![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(I don't know; it's what Danielle would say?) There's a prompt on the PoI kink meme for a Lost crossover (because of so many actors being common to the two shows. Fusco even had a cameo!) with specific instructions not to make Harold and Ben the same person.
So, naturally, that's what I woke up with today, and I wrote a brief snippet of what could be a story but totally won't, and posted it as "not a fill" and I'll post it here too in case anyone's interested. Because I think becoming Harold Finch would be an interesting kind of redemption.
*
It was the oddity of the Machine's forming a number from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, and Émile, or On Education that first caught Harold's attention. Distracted and feeling indulgent and full of doughnuts, he let John track down the social's owner.
"Her name's Alexandra Rousseau," he reported. "Twenty-six. Has a PhD in history from Yale, lives in California but…" -- keys tapping -- "she's in town interviewing for a job at Columbia. Wonder if she's the victim or the perpetrator. How competitive is the academic world, Harold?"
"It can be cut-throat, Mr. Reese--" he began to say, and suddenly a hundred deaths slammed into his mind: throats cut, indeed; throats choking on poison gas; gunshots after gunshots; and the visceral sensation of stabbing one man in the chest and strangling another with a piece of rope. He staggered and clutched the desk.
"You all right, Harold?" and John was in front of him, grabbing his arms, face full of concern.
"I'm fine; I just…"
John let go and studied him a moment longer. "Do you… know this woman?"
"No," he said, but there was a face in his mind: smiling, snarling, pleading for her life. "Mr. Reese, if you would…"
"I'm on it." John slipped into his suit jacket, started for the door.
"Bring her here," Harold said, and John froze.
"What? I don't think that's--"
"Just do what I say," and another voice lurked behind his usual mild tone, a voice accustomed to command and persuasion and untruth. Not so terribly different from his own, then. "Go," and John went.
He sat for an hour waiting for them to return, staring at the face on the computer screen, remembering in flashes and then in agonizing chunks, knowing how her eyes would widen and her mouth move as she spoke to name him. "Dr. Linus!" she would say, all happiness and surprise, and then the joy would flit away and her expression alter as she remembered too.
So, naturally, that's what I woke up with today, and I wrote a brief snippet of what could be a story but totally won't, and posted it as "not a fill" and I'll post it here too in case anyone's interested. Because I think becoming Harold Finch would be an interesting kind of redemption.
*
It was the oddity of the Machine's forming a number from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, and Émile, or On Education that first caught Harold's attention. Distracted and feeling indulgent and full of doughnuts, he let John track down the social's owner.
"Her name's Alexandra Rousseau," he reported. "Twenty-six. Has a PhD in history from Yale, lives in California but…" -- keys tapping -- "she's in town interviewing for a job at Columbia. Wonder if she's the victim or the perpetrator. How competitive is the academic world, Harold?"
"It can be cut-throat, Mr. Reese--" he began to say, and suddenly a hundred deaths slammed into his mind: throats cut, indeed; throats choking on poison gas; gunshots after gunshots; and the visceral sensation of stabbing one man in the chest and strangling another with a piece of rope. He staggered and clutched the desk.
"You all right, Harold?" and John was in front of him, grabbing his arms, face full of concern.
"I'm fine; I just…"
John let go and studied him a moment longer. "Do you… know this woman?"
"No," he said, but there was a face in his mind: smiling, snarling, pleading for her life. "Mr. Reese, if you would…"
"I'm on it." John slipped into his suit jacket, started for the door.
"Bring her here," Harold said, and John froze.
"What? I don't think that's--"
"Just do what I say," and another voice lurked behind his usual mild tone, a voice accustomed to command and persuasion and untruth. Not so terribly different from his own, then. "Go," and John went.
He sat for an hour waiting for them to return, staring at the face on the computer screen, remembering in flashes and then in agonizing chunks, knowing how her eyes would widen and her mouth move as she spoke to name him. "Dr. Linus!" she would say, all happiness and surprise, and then the joy would flit away and her expression alter as she remembered too.
